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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017015">(you love) the sound of sorry</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kennith/pseuds/kennith'>kennith</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Death and the Maiden [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abigail Hobbs Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, M/M, POV Abigail Hobbs, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Whump, Will Graham Dies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:29:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28017015</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kennith/pseuds/kennith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> He raised my hands in the backyard / He taught me to be a good shot </i>
</p><p>Abigail survives the events of Mizumono. Will does not.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abigail Hobbs &amp; Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham &amp; Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Death and the Maiden [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063910</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>159</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(you love) the sound of sorry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i'm gonna finish my other fics eventually (probably). i just have very intense hannibal brainworms right now.<br/>apologies if anyone comes off as ooc, i'm trying to get the hang of writing them (abigail is particularly tricky).<br/>the title and summary comes from swan by nicole dollanganger.</p><p>thank you for reading. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Abigail spends her days in the hospital, pondering. She barely responds to the nurses who check on her stitches and IV, listens to the doctors' mumbled concern about her lack of speech. <em> Could it be a response to the trauma? </em> One asks, then continues, <em> she’s been through multiple stressful situations in just under a year— </em></p><p>She tunes out the moment they bring up her father. The voices of the gossiping nurses echo through her ear, mumbling about the Minnesota Shrike. She lifts the blanket over her head—she’s heard enough about <em>her father her father your father</em> <em>did you help him kill those girls can you recognize this body are you a killer Abigail?</em></p><p>She drifts off to sleep with the beeping of monitors and the talks of fitting her for a prosthetic ear acting as white noise. She dreams of the moment she killed Nick Boyle, in her childhood home. His face is pinched in shock and pain. The hilt of the knife in her hand and the slide of his blood against it feels good. Her surroundings flicker and fade, and it turns into an all-consuming void, as Nick Boyle turns into Hannibal. He smiles as Abigail drags the knife through his abdomen. <em> This is all I ever wanted for us. </em></p><p>When she wakes up, she feels free.</p>
<hr/><p>She remembers the moment the paramedics dragged her onto the stretcher, loud voices barking orders throughout the air. She looks into Will’s lifeless eyes and hears none of them. The brilliant bright blue, so much like her own, has long since faded. She closes her eyes and drifts off as the voices begin to grow louder.</p><p>She didn’t want to go hunting with Will. The enjoyment she ever got from hunting was long since ruined by her father, him breathing down her neck as she aims her rifle at an unsuspecting fawn. (She knew why he always went after fawns.)</p><p>She thinks of the phantom chill of Hannibal’s cold linoleum floor against her bare skin, the only warmth coming from the blood gushing from her neck and Will’s hands pressing on it. He ignores his own wound, whispering to Abigail <em> you’ll be okay you’ll survive I always wanted to take you fishing the stag is dying.</em> By the time emergency services arrive, Will had long since collapsed onto her chest and she was left sobbing in a pool of their blood.</p><p>They had been able to save her, but not Will. She’s not sure who she is more angry at—them, Hannibal, or herself.</p>
<hr/><p>Will’s funeral is a quiet affair. It’s mostly barren, with only a few people in attendance: Jack, Margot, Price, Zeller, and herself. Alana was still too ill to attend, and she was barely able to make it herself. With Will having no relatives to afford the funeral, Jack paid for the entire event out of pocket. Abigail wonders if it’s for Will, or it’s to clear his conscience.</p><p>Abigail puts on her best black dress for the occasion, one Hannibal bought for her all those months ago. She thinks back to that day, with them sharing a cup of tea and Hannibal offering to take her out for a brief outing, and him surprising her with a shopping spree. She remembers the proud gleam in his eye when she picked out this dress, a modest knee-length with long sleeves and a turtleneck collar, and how <em> sincere </em>he sounded as he suggested a pair of matching heels for it.</p><p>She wants to sob, but she keeps it in, for Will’s sake. He wouldn’t want to see her like this. She feels a sharp gaze on her back, and the wispy touch of his hand on her shoulder. <em> “‘Wade off into the quiet of the stream,’” </em> he murmurs. <em> “Hannibal told me to do that—when I was feeling stressed.” </em></p><p>She does just that as the priest speaks of God and prayer, thinking of the fishing trip with Will that always seems to come to mind lately. He stands beside her, as she lifts up a lure—one he made just for her.</p><p><em> “You named yours after me, right?” </em> She asks, then smiles at his nod. <em> “Well, I named mine after you.” </em></p><p>Will laughs, and puts a hand on her shoulder—the gentle, grounding touch of a father. At the edge of the stream, Hannibal’s dark eyes meet her own.</p><p>By the time the fantasy is over, the priest says his final <em> Amen</em>.</p>
<hr/><p>She stays with Alana following her discharge from the hospital. Staring at the older woman in a wheelchair makes her too aware of the bandage wrapped around her throat. Despite everything—Alana still looks at her so kindly, with warmth in her eyes that Abigail feels is so misplaced.</p><p>Alana finds her on the floor of the guest bedroom, staring at her feet. The sight of dark carpet is comforting, somehow. It’s soft beneath her fingers, just like Alana’s eyes.</p><p>“Do you want to come down for dinner?” Alana asks from the doorway. Abigail doesn’t need to look at her to see the pity and concern on her face.</p><p>She doesn’t say a word, just shakes her head. “Kitchens are…” she trails off, unable to continue. <em> They’re a reminder. </em></p><p>The thought of the cold tiled floor makes her want to vomit. She drifts her hand across the carpet, feeling the softness against the pads of her fingers. The floor isn’t warm—not even close, but it’s just the right temperature. It’s the cool of the stream around her legs, splashing against her face.</p><p>Alana, sweet nurturing Alana, understands. “I’ll bring it up for you,” she says softly. <em> I forgive you </em>goes unsaid, but Abigail hears it anyway. Once she hears Alana’s wheelchair go out of earshot, she drops her head between her legs and sobs.</p>
<hr/><p>Jack Crawford hands her Will’s glasses, like they’re a parting gift.</p><p>“It’s what he would’ve wanted,” he says. She feels the cracks in the frames, the chips, and she feels like she’s missing something. What does he mean, what Will would’ve wanted?</p><p>She slides them on her face. She obviously doesn’t need them, they make her vision fuzzy around the edges, but they’re able to fill one of the many gaps in her heart. She stares at Jack’s blurry eyes—she can’t tell if they’re from the glasses or tears—and she understands.</p><p><em> “I had a part of you, now you have a part of me,” </em> Will says from where he stands behind Jack, holding her ear in his hand. <em> “Even Steven.” </em></p><p>She murmurs a thank you. Jack tips his hat to her and says goodbye. He nods to Alana, whose lips are pursued in what looks like either deep thought or a wince, bidding her a farewell.</p><p>Jack Crawford disappears from her life. She never thinks about him again.</p>
<hr/><p>That night, Abigail stands in front of the bathroom mirror. Her eyes are bloodshot, and the fluorescent light makes her look more sickly and broken. <em> “Poor Abigail,”</em> Marissa sneers. <em> “Your daddies had to do all the dirty work for you.” </em></p><p>She picks up the scissors. She stares at her reflection, the light bouncing off Will’s glasses, and begins to cut. <em> “The sheep is being sheared,” </em>Will murmurs.</p><p>Clumps of hair hit the floor, and she cuts and cuts and <em> cuts </em> until it barely brushes past her chin. <em> “The act of cutting hair is symbolic in many Native American cultures,” </em> one voice says, one that sounds distinctly like <em> him</em>. <em> “Many would cut their hair after the death of a loved one. It also symbolizes growth, separating yourself from the past.” </em></p><p>The glasses and her hair make her look so much like <em> Will’s daughter </em> it almost makes her sick. She wonders if in an alternate universe somewhere, that their positions would be switched. If she died instead. If they all left together.</p><p>If she had died, would Will still chase him?</p><p><em> “Aren’t you chasing him?” </em> Beverly Katz asks, Hannibal’s handprints dark and noticeable around her neck. Abigail looks down at her passport, reading off her alias. <em> Abigail Burke. “He would want you to go after him, wouldn’t he?” </em></p><p>Abigail doesn’t need a trail to be able to find him. She already knows. She knows how she would’ve posed as Roman Fell’s adopted daughter. She knows where he is.</p><p>
  <em> “Do you know where he is, Abigail?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No. He never told me, just that it was already taken care of.” </em>
</p><p>The FBI already has an idea of where he is, anyways. His broken heart was a gift for Will only, but she’s the only one left to receive it.</p><p><em> “This is your rebirth, Abigail,” </em>he says, smiling at her from the corner of her eye.</p><p>“Long live Abigail Hobbs,” she responds in kind, before throwing the scissors at him. But he’s already gone.</p>
<hr/><p>Not long after arriving in Florence, she stops by the Ponte Vecchio. Her fingers trail across the edge—Hannibal had wanted to show this to her. She wonders if he’s stopped by here yet. Maybe that was all a lie and he wanted to show it to Will instead.</p><p><em> But we have no way of knowing now. </em>She pulls a bag of her hair out of her pocket. Maybe it’s strange that she was carrying it around, from the airport, to the plane, to here. But Abigail isn’t most people.</p><p>
  <em> “After the cut, the leftover hair was given a peaceful passing on. Many would burn it, bury it, or let it drift away in a river.” </em>
</p><p>How fitting.</p><p>She dumps her hair into the river, watching it drift off as she sticks the bag back into her coat. The water really is wonderful. A perfect vacation. A family vacation.</p><p>She briefly wonders if they sold Will’s house yet. How his dogs are doing. If they’re going to auction off his belongings. She curses herself for the distraction, and walks across the bridge. She has one more stop to make.</p>
<hr/><p>She chooses to corner him after a lecture for a reason. Because he can’t attack her here. He doesn’t know where she’s staying. He doesn’t know how <em> long </em>she’s staying. He can’t cause a scene in public. It’s impolite.</p><p>She sees him talking with an older man, another professor, and her heart begins to pound in her chest. She remembers her dream of killing him, how <em> amazing </em>she felt afterwards. But that won’t help her. She’s not him—she’s not her father. She is reborn.</p><p>She wonders if he sees a flash of dark hair and glasses in the corner of his vision, and if sends a shiver up his spine. If he feels thrilled. If he then feels confused—because Will wouldn’t confront him in a public space. Luckily she isn’t Will.</p><p>The moment the other man moves away, she sees her chance to strike. (To sink her teeth into him.) “Dr. Fell?” She says as she walks up to him, playing the part of a curious student. She revels in the way he stops and freezes. Most people wouldn’t notice even a small movement, but she’s not most people. She’s spent enough time with him to <em> know</em>.</p><p>He looks at her, taking in the way his eyes widen slightly at her appearance, Will’s glasses. Outside, he is expressionless. He doesn’t say a word.</p><p>She takes Will’s glasses off, and holds them out to him. He wraps his fingers around them slowly, and she can pinpoint the moment when he <em> realizes</em>. The slight tremble of his hand, his mouth opening just a minute amount, because he’s not undignified enough to let his jaw drop. She feels the same way she did those months ago, in the hospital. Free. Powerful.</p><p>She looks him in the eye, and <em> knows </em> that the faint shine in his eyes are tears. She doesn’t have Will’s glasses to blame for the fuzziness anymore. “Goodbye, Hannibal.”</p><p>She turns away, letting her scarf flutter slightly behind her.</p><p>She never sees Hannibal Lecter in person ever again. Only remembers him when she hears of his incarceration months later. Her life goes on.</p><p>
  <em> Long live Abigail Hobbs. </em>
</p>
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